Order in Exile
by 50caliberchaos
Summary: Yuri and John Dracovich, a father and son team of trained soldiers working for an American private military contractor find what should have been a simple, if high-stakes, security detail spiraling into an all out war fraught with conspiracies from which neither is sure they'll emerge with their lives. Banking can after all be quite complicated, but the Purge simplifies things.


Evening everyone, I'm taking a break from thinking tonight and churning out something to indulge my right-wing, conspiratorial, shit head power fantasies. Or at least I'm sure that what anyone who didn't like _The_ _Purge_ will say by the time they read the second paragraph of this little story. Back here in a dimension of the universe I call reality, I'm hoping that everyone will find this little exercise entertaining as I, like many people, watched _The Purge _and thought it was actually fun in the demented sort of way that makes most Europeans keep Americans warily in the corner of their eye like a pensioner watching that punk with green hair and a spiky leather jacket sitting across the aisle from them on the train. I also, like many people however, thought that overall concept was vastly underestimated and underplayed by Hollywood. On a night when all crime is legal, I reiterate, _ALL. CRIME. IS. LEGAL._ who gives a dusty shit about one home invasion and a family consisting mostly of people who, between them, might have enough survival instinct to last a night on the couch without color television?  
>Anyway, here's my take on the events legalized by the Twenty-eighth Amendment.<br>Peace!

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><p>Order in Exile<p>

Chapter One : Overwatch

_**And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air**__,_ the lyric blared over the aging loudspeakers, projecting from the steel cones surrounding the speaker with a metallic timbre characteristic of an especially well-used stereo system. _**Gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there**__,_ the closing words of the anthem and their guitar accompaniment, the latter courtesy of the late Jimmy Hendrix, echoed throughout the empty, garbage-strewn streets of Topeka, the small capital city of the State of Kansas as a cool wind, still cleaving to winter's chill blew newspapers and empty cups this way and that. _**Oh say does that Star Spangled Banner yet wave**__,_ the artfully protracted line of the song seemed to crawl up the side of the whitewashed façade of the eight story bank set strategically on the corner of two major downtown streets in the heart of the city's financial district, reaching the roof where there lay on two thick blankets two men, both dressed in black and bristling with magazines packed with bullets and hunkered down so as to remain shielded from view by the waist high rampart lining the roof of the building. _**O'er the land of the free**__,_ both men listened, checking their watches and confirming between themselves a time of exactly eighteen hundred and fifty-nine hours and thirty seconds while simultaneously locking their magazines into the lower receivers of their AR-10's and pulling hard on the firearms' stiff bolts to chamber the heavy seven point six two millimeter rounds. _**And the home**__,_ the two men steadied themselves, _**of the**_, one crossed himself with two fingers while the other closed his eyes and opened them quickly again. _**Brave**__, _the final word of the song and the long, trailing recorded note on the guitar warbled on for some twenty seconds more before finally ending and leaving the surround utterly silent.

Both of the men pushed themselves up to their knees and opened the bipods fastened to the ends of their rifles, setting the weapons up on the little wall ringing in the roof of the bank and positioning themselves such that they scanned through high-powered scopes both directions in which the main road before the bank ran. One of the two snipers, a relatively young man who looked to be in his early twenties and wore his tactical vest as though he had been born in it, reached with two fingers to press on the little earpiece fastened to the side of his head just beneath his black mesh baseball cap. He listened for a moment to the grainy voice on the other end of the radio before returning his hand to the foregrip of his rifle.

Glancing to his partner, an older character who looked to be about fifty and shared his younger counterpart's cold blue eyes, the younger sniper nodded down the street leading west towards the nicer part of town. "Alpha team moved the boss to the eighth floor and has him secured in the maintenance wing. Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot are all in positions on floors three through seven and floors one and two are sealed off." He went back to scanning the streets through his scope. Recon teams one through three are reporting no movement of consequence to the north, east, and south. Team four has yet to report in." He trailed off, spotting a flicker of motion on the ground and immediately shifting to get a bead on it. "I'm going to assume they've been destroyed by the Bank of Vespucci's forces."

The older sniper breathed sharply through his nose, an action sending a shake through his black moustache. "Looks like you were right son," he answered without looking to his partner. "They'll try hitting us from the west."

Spotting the source of the movement on the ground, a pair of travelers dressed in dark clothes and walking quickly south down the road, the young sniper began scanning the couple's surroundings. "Two Novembers moving south," he reported quietly as the darkly clothed pedestrians stuck to the shadows cast by the setting sun on their journey. "Aw shit," he went on, turning only a few degrees to his left and spotting the band of a half dozen men, clothed in black and wearing featureless masks materializing from an alley approaching the travelling couple from behind. He relayed what he saw to his father while watching the situation unfold.

The elder sniper reached with one hand and flipped a little switch on a power pack buckled to his belt and immediately a miniature display flickered to life on the interior surface of his protective glasses. "Sharing your scope," the older man stated flatly as he watched the scene through his son's equipment. "Uh oh," he muttered, looking on as the travelling couple stopped dead in their tracks as another cloaked figure in a black robe emerged from an alley ahead of them. The couple turned back only to discover the primary group of attackers had fanned out behind them. The couple found themselves trapped between a concrete building and seven likely attackers while the snipers overhead watched.

The son looked over to his father, his face tight and a drop of sweat falling from his chin. "Permission to engage?" the young sniper asked.

Shaking his head, the elder soldier cleared his throat as quietly as he could. "Denied," he answered. "We're not to give away our position." The little view screen in his glasses went dark and vanished as he returned to his overwatch of the area. "Nor can we afford to waste the ammunition."

Swearing under his breath, the son returned his attention to the scene beneath as the masked figures closed to within a few yards of the couple. At this point the male pushed his female companion behind himself and drew a pair of wickedly long knives from the back of his pants, brandishing one in each hand. Even from his elevated position the younger snipers heard the gang of purgers laugh menacingly as they themselves drew a variety of weapons. Some drew knives of their own, while two pulled tomahawks and the smallest of the assailants produced a pistol from the confines of his clothes.

Again the younger soldier looked to his father. "Dad," he pressed. "These people are about to die."

"Nothing we can do," came his answer. "We have our orders."

The young sniper kept his rifle trained on the scene below him, but refrained from firing as the marauders continued laughing and closed in to the sound of the woman and her partner both screaming for help. Opening his eyes again and taking aim, the younger soldier pressed the rifle's stock to his cheek and wrapped his finger around the trigger. "Fuck orders," he whispered, squeezing the trigger with robotic calm.

A steel-cored slug shot from the barrel, chased by an explosion and a trail of fire. An instant later the precision engineered metal missile passed through the skull of one of the masked men. The purger's face popped like a balloon, painting the wall of the building before him with red and grey graffiti. As the corpse's knees buckled and even before gravity finished pulling it to the ground, four more cracks of thunder split the tensely silent evening and four more bursts of red and grey painted the storefront behind the travelling couple. By the end of the third second since the first shot, the remaining three purgers realized something had gone horribly wrong and looked around to see their surroundings painted with their friends' blood and decorated with bits of brain and skull. Two of those three dropped as two more shots rang from the rooftop, one screaming and clutching at the gaping hole in his stomach from which hung all manner of nightmarish gore.

The final masked purger, instantly threw his knife to the ground and his hands into the air. "I surrender!" his voice carried over the distance as he screamed in stark terror for his life. "Don't shoot! I surrender!"

Waiting a moment, the young sniper stared through his scope down at the scene beneath him. "Everyone walk away," he muttered, as much to himself as to the remaining parties on the ground as the wounded purger stopped screaming, convulsed once, and ceased moving.

The travelling couple took several steps away from the remaining purger, the male motioning with one of his knives for the masked assailant to get moving. As the purger turned and ran, the man looked up and spotted the watching sniper. Instantly he positioned himself between the sniper and the woman behind him, though from his position on the roof, the young soldier raised a hand and waved the couple on. Slowly and with no small degree of caution the couple turned and resumed their trek south with renewed purpose.

Turning back to his father, the shooter grinned until he saw the angry glare levelled at him from his superior's dark features. The younger sniper's grin grew awkward and he cleared his throat. "Tango down?" he quickly stammered. "Didn't you see Bank of Vespucci's logo on their jackets?"

Again shaking his head, the elder sighed and returned to staring through his scope. "Not until after you took them down," he answered. "My angle was bad so it was lucky you were in a position to determine their affiliation. Good shooting son."

The little speaker in his ear buzzing, the young soldier pressed to fingers to the side of his head. "Dracovich," the voice hissed through the miniature speaker. "Report in. What happened?"

"John Dracovich, Zulu team here," the young sniper responded. "Nothing to worry about Rob, just a few hostiles moving in from the east, possibly a scouting party. Had to put them down before they could scout our position. Over."

Robert's voice returned over the radio. "Well keep it to a minimum up there," he said, his tone gruff and demanding. "The boss wants to make it through the night with minimal bloodshed. That's why he hired us, after all. Over."

John smirked. "He might have picked the wrong PMC, Mr. Robert 'Collateral Damage' Dobson. Over."

His commander's single laugh carried over the airwaves. "Shut the fuck up smartass. How's Yuri doing up there? Over."

Glancing over to his father, John looked back down to the ground far below. "The old man's alright. All things considered it's pretty quiet up here, for a Purge at least. Over."

"We're four minutes in, dumbass," Robert responded. "Don't get cocky. We lost contact with recon team one after sending them west to look for team four. It could be a radio malfunction but I say smart money's on they're all being dead so I want everyone ready a fight. Over."

"Roger that," John nodded and continued sweeping the streets below. "If we see anything else we'll let you know sir. Zulu out." The young sniper turned back to his father and flipped his mic away from his lip. "Recon team one went silent looking for team four," he reported. "We're definitely getting hit from the west."

Yuri nodded. "Yep," he answered. "When they get here we're going to put all kinds of lead on the targets but I want you ready to fall back indoors if things get hairy. No hero shit, understood?"

"Sure thing," John acknowledged. "Hey," he said, almost as an afterthought. "What make's Bank of Vespucci so keen on taking out a shit little savings and loan place like Kansas Federal Bank that they'll hire Chilean and Venezuelan mercs to do it?"

"Kansas Federal is hardly a shit little operation," Yuri glanced to his son. "They may be a local institution but they're the reason Vespucci doesn't have much of a foothold in the Midwest. The Purge just gives everyone the perfect excuse to settle things more conclusively than normal procedures would allow. Besides," he paused as he went back to looking through his scope. "It's The Purge, fun for the whole fucking family."


End file.
